


Pinstripes

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Stitch by Stitch [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Attraction, Insecurity, M/M, Suits, Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9740930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: The sushi restaurant they meet Ross at has a higher-end contemporary look, with dark wood booths, low lighting, and long tables. Trott has undone the top button of his shirt, exposing the pale dip of his throat and the often hidden line of his collarbones. Smith wants to fit his mouth to skin, wants Trott’s hands in his hair, wants Trott to push him under the table so Smith can fit his head between his thighs.Smith really shouldn’t be fantasizing about Trott in suits, especially when Trott’s livelihood is making them. He glares at the menu until he can get his thoughts in order. The stain on his shirt sleeve sneers back at him and he hides his hands under the table.In essence, Ross and Trott look one thousand times better than Smith could ever hope to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ross treats Trott and Smith out to expensive sushi.  
> occurs after Ribbons
> 
> cw: Insecurity, slight embarrassment, mention of light bondage and sex, class differences, lust/fantasizing, leanings towards Suit Kink, mild sexual tension?  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/02/15/pinstripes-ghostofgatsby/

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, just a sec.”

Smith finishes getting dressed in black pants and the only non-plaid button down he owns- a pale blue with a rusty stain on the sleeve. A stain from what, he doesn't know. It must have gotten fucked up in the laundromat one of the last times he went. It hadn’t come out since.

Luckily, Trott had already locked up the shop when Ross called and asked them out to eat tonight. Smith thinks he might have fainted if Trott had tried to put him in one of his suits. He could hardly hear Trott's voice over the rush of blood in his ears when he asked that first time they met up with Ross. "Do you have something nicer? Or do you want to borrow a shirt?"

“No, I've...don't worry about it,” he had mumbled, pulling out the bottom drawer in Trott's dresser that he was storing his clothes in. All of his clothes fit evenly in that one bottom drawer.

The sushi restaurant they meet Ross at has a higher-end contemporary look, with dark wood booths, low lighting, and long tables. Ross is wearing a navy pinstripe blazer with a white shirt and a red tie, and Trott is in classic charcoal and a button down in a lighter shade of gray. He’s foregone a tie himself, which is all the same- Smith can’t look at gray ties without thinking about Trott tying his hands to the headboard with it- but Trott has undone the top button of his shirt and that’s almost worse. The pale dip of Trott’s throat and the often hidden line of his collarbones are exposed to view. Smith wants to fit his mouth to skin, wants Trott’s hands in his hair, wants Trott to push him under the table so Smith can fit his head between his thighs.

Smith really shouldn’t be fantasizing about Trott in suits, especially when Trott’s livelihood is making them. He glares at the menu until he can get his thoughts in order. The stain on his shirt sleeve sneers back at him and he hides his hands under the table.

In essence, Ross and Trott look one thousand times better than Smith could ever hope to be.

Ross’ silver cufflinks wink in the light as he rolls his sleeves up, baring his muscled, dark-haired forearms. “Do either of you mind if I go ahead and order for us?” he asks.

“You know more than me about this fancy shit,” Smith replies, flipping his menu to the drinks section- the only thing he can translate. In English.

Trott opens his mouth to say something to Ross and closes it again. There’s a flash of unease in his eyes that Smith can’t make sense of, but it dissipates. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t order all of them spicy like last time. I _still_ have heartburn.”

Ross snorts, and lays aside his menu with a smile.

They order various cocktails- sake with peach nectar, a lemon-ginger gin and tonic, chamomile whiskey sours- and a platter of sashimi for their first course.

Smith fumbles with the chopsticks, having to keep readjusting them in his hand. He wasn't going to embarrass himself this time. Except he can feel the unease creeping up the back of his neck. He shouldn’t be here, in this overpriced restaurant and its fancy dining atmosphere. He’s nowhere near as successful as Ross, or Trott, and his clothes feel cheap and dated against his skin. This is not the kind of place he deserves to be. Not when he busks street corners for a living, and his normal taste of asian cuisine is ramen cup noodles. Smith wishes in a split second that he smoked cigarettes or had someone who cared about him enough to call when he was out with friends- some obsession he could excuse himself over, and go outside in the cold to freeze his thoughts in place before they ambushed him.

He awkwardly twists his chopsticks as he picks up the thin slice of striped orange-pink salmon from the circular plate in the middle of the table. Smith knows to avoid the wasabi again because of the time he ate a handful of wasabi peas in high school and threw up in his roommate's sink. He thankfully doesn’t knock over his tiny ramekin of soy sauce into his lap this time, but at least he had learned Trott was a genius when it came to stain removal, if he knew what the stain was. Smith wasn’t the first to ruin his clothes on accident- Trott was a tailor for a living, so he knew how to repair or replace anything. Suits were his specialty.

Ross had gotten to know Trott so well because of how often he ruined his clothes.

“It’s not like I _planned_ to trip over my feet and land in a pile of dog crap,” he told Trott one afternoon when he came in while Smith had been downstairs helping reorganize the shop. “So then the mustard stain from lunch didn’t seem like much of a big deal since I was just going to replace them anyway.”

For all of Ross’ good looks and charm, and monetary value and success, he had _terrible_ luck. It kept Trott in business, though, or so they liked to joke.

Various spicy king crab and tuna nigiri come soon after they finish the sashimi. Ross had also ordered a vegetable maki with asparagus, kampyō, and avocado, and a grilled octopus maki with eggplant, apple, and zucchini. Each of the rolls had been carefully sliced and displayed on long rectangular plates.

Smith tries not to be distracted by Ross as he picks up servings of sushi between his fingers. Ross’ bright eyes are trained on Trott while he talks about fucking stock market sales, of all things. Smith has to force himself to look away from Ross’ lips, the curve of his mouth as he goes to take a bite of sushi, and instead tries to be grateful he can put his chopsticks down for the moment.

The first time he went out to eat with Ross and Trott, he mainly let the other two talk. He had felt much like the third wheel as they discussed business things, and he barely said anything all night. Even though it had been easy to banter with Ross whenever he’d caught him and Trott in the back room of the shop, it was harder in a focused setting like this. It was harder when they were so much in their element, and Smith was so much of an outsider.

This time, the topics of conversation move from business to movies and music, and Smith feels leagues more comfortable and talkative. They were in the middle of remarking on the different style incorporations on the newest Bastille album when Trott suggested Smith could do acoustic covers of it on his next set.

“Next set?” Ross asks.

“Smith does open-mics at coffee shops and karaoke nights,” Trott tells him, and Smith is struck between feeling surprised at how nicely Trott puts it and that Ross is now aware of the embarrassing revelation of what Smith does for a living.

“Really? That’s awesome. You can actually sing? Like, decently?” Ross asks him.

“Yeah, I guess…”

Trott snorts. “You’re more than decent. I’m surprised you haven’t had anyone contact you about freelance work or something.”

“I know some people. I could send them your info? If you wanted.”

Smith gapes, feeling like he’s been chopped in half at the waist, because his stomach has dropped out of his body. “A-are you fucking serious?”

Ross laughs. “Yeah, mate. I can pull some strings.”

“Um. I...I don’t know what to say.” He’s frantically trying to recall what his old contact info is. He hadn’t gotten emails that weren’t spam in almost a year. And those had been the last of his loan-payment reminders from his first, and only, semester of college.

Trott elbows him cheekily. “Tell him you’d suck dick for a contract deal, mate.”

Smith snorts. “Fuck you.”

“Well, you can think about it, Smith and I’ll drop off their contact info to Trott next time I come in for a fitting,” Ross continues with a smirk, “Or, more likely, an altering.”

“Think about fucking him, or giving other kinds of contact?” Trott teases.

“Oooh, filthy bugger,” Ross tuts, shaking his head at Trott’s innuendo, “I’m talking about music production contracts. If you’re interested?” He raises an eyebrow at Smith.

Smith’s chest flutters with a strange mix of hopeless desire and crazy disbelief. “Alright. Deal,” he hears himself say, and laughs to shake off his bewilderment. “Pass me that spicy tuna, mate.”

 

Smith doesn’t have any room in his stomach for their dessert- mochi green tea ice cream- but he makes himself eat every bite. Ross was paying. He can’t let a kind thing go to waste, even when there’s a pecking in his mind that he looks like a waste anyway.

 _Waste of space in Trott and Ross’ would-be-date_.

It’s an unprovoked, bitter remark, but it sticks so tightly to his mind for the rest of the night that he’s lost in thought by the time they leave the restaurant.

Because it’s true- Ross and Trott have more eyes for each other than they do for Smith. They know each other better; they have inside jokes. Why _wouldn’t_ they see each other, if they were interested in each other, when they have such chemistry?

“Thanks for coming, Smith,” Ross says to him on the way out, “It’s always nice to spend time with Trott, but I’m glad you came too.”

Smith is so shocked that he trips over himself to respond. “Yeah? Right, yeah. No problem- it was nice, so, thanks. For inviting me, too. Good sushi!” He facepalms internally. _Fuck, shut up. Stop rambling, you’re a mess!_

Ross smiles. “Anytime.” He gives Trott a one-armed hug goodbye and pats Smith’s shoulder before they part ways. He’s close with Trott. Smith doesn’t feel...jealous of it. He doesn’t think it’s jealousy, even though something tight within him aches when Trott and Ross hug. If he examines it further...it’s not about Trott. He gets his own share of Trott’s casual touch when they’re together. Ross was just a very touchy, hug-y person, and Smith had told him he wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection like that. Between friends, or...otherwise. He’s not particularly close to Ross. Not like Trott is. But some part of him is interested in that closeness, maybe. He doesn’t know. It’s not important, and anyway, Trott’s enough. Trott puts up with enough. Smith should just...deal with it.

He feels shaken up about tonight in such a weird way. Ross had offered to get in touch with music people for him- he didn’t specify, exactly, and that could mean producers, booking agents, anything. It was a crazy thought, that Smith might be given exactly what he wanted- a career making music. Or at least a way to get his foot in the door.

Smith sighs to himself as he follows Trott back to his car, parked a block away from the restaurant.

It was so crazy an offer, he might not take it.

Fuck, why wouldn’t he, right? But when he started out, he told himself he wouldn’t take any shortcuts. He’d find his own path. He’d make his own way. No matter how many street corners it took, he’d get there. Eventually.

But maybe that was a dumb route to take.

Maybe it always had been.

He’d been busking for about two and a half years...or was it three years now? He wasn’t sure when he started, only that it was before he’d moved out of his old place and _after_ he’d quit college.

Trott drives back to the shop and the apartment. Smith smudges the condensation on the passenger side window with a finger, listening to the squeak of water on the glass. The kindness of strangers had led him here...but Smith always felt like he was taking it for granted because of how he paid the rent. He squirmed in his seat, feeling bloated from all the food they ate. Thinking about Ross laughing at his jokes, how he and Trott smiled at him when they talked animatedly about things they liked.

“Trott?” Smith asks, idly rubbing his stomach uncomfortably, “Were you and Ross ever…”

“Ever what? Together?”

Smith freezes and sits up straighter, looking over at Trott and raising an eyebrow at him. “How’d you know what I was going to say?”

Trott shrugs. The shadows in the car make his jawline more pronounced and angular. His eyes look dark and strangely hollowed. “Figured you’d ask sooner or later.” He sighs. “The short answer is...no, we never dated. It wouldn’t have worked out. We’re busy people- myself with my shop, and Ross as an investor. We’re... _better_ , as friends, I think.”

“I sense a ‘but’ in there,” Smith protests.

Trott chuckles. “There isn’t one. We’re close. There’s just an air of weirdness, I suppose.”

“Weirdness?”

He shrugs again, and says nothing. Smith returns to staring out the window, watching the glare of neon and streetlights streak by. He diverts the topic. “Why’d you let me move in with you?”

“I let you sleep on my couch, Smith, I’d hardly call that moving in.”

“But you let me stay. Before we’d even fucked and I snuck into your bed. Why?” Maybe Smith shouldn’t ask. Maybe he shouldn’t doubt the reasons behind why good things have come his way. But he can’t help it.

Trott’s silent long enough that Smith turns to look at him again. He looks...pensive. In a held-back way. Like something pains him, or used to.

“You needed a place. I was...lonely, partly. Guess I just figured- I don’t know, that you were lonely too? We were alright together, as friends, so I thought it would work out. I never wanted anything more.” He pauses for a moment and then corrects himself. “Well- I never _expected_ more. Though it’s been nice, you know. Having you around.” He smiles genuinely and meets Smith’s eyes. “Even though you’re a massive arsehole who uses all the hot water when you shower.”

Smith gives him a small smile back and looks away again. He taps his fingernails idly against the glass window in the passenger-side door.

“So...any reason for the twenty-questions round tonight?” Trott asks gently.

Smith shakes his head. “No. I just...had stuff on my mind, I guess.”

He can hear the frown in Trott’s voice when he speaks. “You sure you’re alright, then, Smith? You were rather distant during dinner...” Smith hears the click of Trott’s turn signal turning on as he changes lanes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.” It shouldn’t be so easy to lie like that, but Trott lets it slide.

“Alright. Well, if you want to talk, I’m here to listen, okay?” Trott reminds him, care in the way his voice softens.

“Okay. _Twat_.” Smith smirks momentarily. The night streaks by with intermittent bursts of light, and he closes his eyes, listening to Trott’s quiet chuckle in response.


End file.
